Chapter 13 - The Fire at the Gates
The headlights of four black tactical SUVs pierced the darkness of the mountain road.
Arthur DeLuca sat in the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle, his eyes bloodshot and manic.
Beside him, two rogue operatives from Vance’s private security unit checked the optics on their rifles.
“Are you certain they are at the old cabin?” Arthur demanded, his voice hoarse from shouting.
“The cellular tracking pinged on Lucas’s satellite phone twenty minutes ago,” the driver replied.
“There are no local police within thirty miles, and the forest service road is completely blocked.”
Arthur racked the slide of his automatic weapon with a violent, trembling motion.
“No prisoners tonight,” Arthur ordered, his humanity completely burned away by desperation.
“Kill Lucas, kill the old man, and burn that girl until not even her teeth can be identified.”
At the cabin, the warning chime of an infrared perimeter sensor beeped softly on Lucas’s handheld receiver.
Lucas looked out the north window through night-vision binoculars, spotting the convoy half a mile down the trail.
“They found the ridge,” Lucas said calmly, picking up his tactical vest and slipping it over his chest.
Matteo walked to the front door, racking a heavy twelve-gauge shotgun with a mechanical snap.
“Vance sent his private strike team,” Matteo said, checking the ammunition bandolier across his shoulder.
“They aren't here to make an arrest; they brought suppressors and incendiary grenades.”
Samuel stood up from his chair, refusing his cane, his posture straight as an ancient oak.
“Take Rachel through the rear root cellar into the old mine shaft,” Samuel ordered Lucas.
“No,” Rachel said, stepping between the old man and the door.
She wore a dark utility jacket, her father’s brass key resting beneath her collar, her eyes burning bright.
“David ran for twenty-five years so that I wouldn't have to run from these cowards.”
“This ends tonight, right here, on this mountain.”
She picked up the second shotgun leaning against the corner of the fireplace.
She had spent every autumn of her teenage years hunting deer in these very woods with David.
She knew the spread, the kick, and the sound of iron firing in the mountain dark.
“Arthur thinks I’m a helpless maid who only knows how to carry silver trays,” Rachel said coldly.
“Let’s show him what David DeLuca’s daughter can do.”
The first flash-bang grenade shattered through the front window, exploding in a blinding white roar.
Gunfire immediately erupted from the perimeter, high-caliber rounds chewing through the log walls.
Lucas fired through the side window with rapid, calculated double-taps, dropping the lead rifleman on the porch.
Matteo stepped onto the threshold, his shotgun roaring three times into the darkness, blowing apart the advancing line.
From the tree line, Arthur stepped forward with a machine pistol, spraying the exterior walls with wild fury.
“Come out, little girl!” Arthur screamed over the noise of the gunfire.
“You’re going to burn just like your father should have burned twenty-five years ago!”
Rachel moved silently around the exterior of the cabin through the shadows of the woodpile.
She circled the perimeter with the instinct of a hunter who knew every tree and boulder on this ridge.
She stepped behind the second SUV, where two mercenaries were preparing to launch an incendiary canister.
Rachel raised her shotgun and fired directly into the rear tire and fuel line of the vehicle.
The blast ruptured the tank, sparks from the return fire instantly igniting the gasoline into an inferno.
A massive wall of fire cut Arthur off from his remaining men, throwing the clearing into blinding light.
Arthur spun around in panic, his weapon swinging wildly through the smoke and flames.
Through the curtain of fire, Rachel walked forward, her weapon pointed straight at Arthur’s chest.
Her face was illuminated by the orange blaze, cold, merciless, and completely fearless.
“Drop the gun, Arthur,” Rachel said, her voice cutting through the roar of the burning truck.
Arthur stared at her, terrified not by the weapon, but by the undeniable ghost staring back at him.
In the flickering light of the flames, she did not look like an employee in an apron.
She had Vincent’s fierce, piercing gaze, framed by David’s calm, lethal stillness.
“You’re just a ghost,” Arthur whispered, his hands beginning to shake uncontrollably.
“I am the reckoning you spent twenty-five years trying to escape,” Rachel said.
Arthur raised his machine pistol with a desperate scream, but Lucas fired from the porch.
The round took Arthur through the shoulder, spinning him violently to the ground in the mud.
Arthur’s weapon flew from his grip, skittering across the dirt into the heat of the fire.
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The remaining mercenaries threw their weapons to the ground, raising their hands as Matteo advanced.
The battle of the mountain was over in less than four minutes.
